


Lost My Heart At The Ball

by bumbletea (starvingsnout)



Category: Twosetviolin
Genre: M/M, Modern Royalty AU, singapore is obviously not a monarchy but shhhh, with shades of cinderella
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-10
Updated: 2021-03-02
Packaged: 2021-03-14 15:20:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 12,924
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28672866
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starvingsnout/pseuds/bumbletea
Summary: Brett may not have become a world-famous soloist as he dreamed, but being made associate concertmaster of Singapore Symphony at 24 isn't too pitiful, either. Unless you ask his mother, hell-bent on furthering her son's station in life by any means necessary, such as marrying him off to a prince...
Relationships: Eddy Chen/Brett Yang
Comments: 21
Kudos: 67





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Someone linked me a twoset roast video during the christmas break and here I am, two weeks later, cheating on my other fandoms. Basically, I watched like 200 clips in a row without shipping them, finally clicked on 2 boys 1 violin and was like.... oh.
> 
> Disclaimer: I've only ever played in a youth orchestra and while I did some research, I'm probably gonna get some things wrong about professional orchestras etc.

Brett's mother is the worst. Somehow she's got it into her head that Prince Edward, younger brother of crown princess Belle, second in line to the throne of Singapore, is the destined future husband of her wayward son, all proven by a series of happy coincidences. Edward is only a year younger than Brett, studied in Brisbane in his youth a stone's throw away from Brett's childhood home, has recently returned to Singapore where Brett settled in for work six months ago, is known to have dated men in the past, and-

"Loves music! See, it says so right here," his mother snatches the newspaper article back before Brett has managed to read a single word, "completed a bachelor's degree at Juilliard with superior academic achievement and practices on the piano four hours every day whilst carrying out his many duties as a member of the royal family."

"I don't care if he practices forty hours a day, mum, I thought you came to Singapore because you missed me, not because you want to turn my life into a Disney film. Where would I even meet him?"

"Why, at the ball tonight, of course." His mother sips her tea, humming in approval. "Ah, nothing like authentic mao feng. Drink up, your skin is looking dry."

"What ball?" Brett snatches the article across the café table, attention momentarily arrested by the formal portrait of the prince in a dark suit, reasonably handsome in a serious, pensive way that probably belies the personality of wet cardboard. Brett shudders and reaches for a dim sum as he skims over the short text, mostly a list of predictably boring biographical facts about the prince, except for the mildly impressive detail that the playlist for the ball, held in honour of his graduation, consists entirely of compositions made by him. "Seems like a pretty exclusive affair, how were you planning on getting in?"

"As your plus one, of course. As the prince is a known music lover, all the members of the Singapore Symphony have been invited. Read your mail more carefully, dear." She slaps Brett's wandering hand away from the remaining dim sums, popping one in her own mouth instead. "You wouldn't want to look puffy at the ball."

"But, I made a reservation at that heritage cuisine restaurant you wanted to try."

"Cancel it. This is more important for your future. Speaking of which, how are things at the orchestra? Is the concertmaster still ill? Such a selfish little man, he should have the decency to retire and hand over his position - and salary! - to you for good. You've been taking care of his duties for months, you're essentially the concertmaster already, and yet he insists snubbing you just so he can keep hogging that violin, Linguini-?"

"Guadagnini," Brett sighs, mournfully watching the last dim sum disappear into his mother's mouth as she warms to one of her favourite topics.

"Honestly, what a strange and old-fashioned way to run an orchestra, letting all these old people steal the limelight year after year with such young talent right under their noses. I guarantee you, people would much rather come and watch a lovely young man like you play rather than some bald, greasy old person. You should smile more, you know, show your beautiful teeth. How are you supposed to stand out when you look so glum all the time? And your posture-!"

Invitation or no, Brett has no intention of attending the ball, planning to escape right after the obligatory post-brunch shopping spree. Unfortunately his mother sees it coming and plays dirty. Baiting him with the prospect of designer shades as an early birthday gift, she steers Brett into an eyewear retailer and confiscates his glasses while he's preoccupied with how his face looks in Ralph Lauren. "You'll get them back at the ball!" she chirps from the backseat of the taxi as she waves him goodbye, leaving him stranded on the kerb in a world of blurry shapes and colours.

Somehow, Brett makes it back to his apartment and wastes fifteen minutes digging around for his old glasses only to realise they're simply not strong enough for him to brave the season opener tomorrow, even if it's just a dumb West Side Story concert. Oh well. He's already got his tails pressed and laid out for the concert, shouldn't be too much of a bother to put in an appearance at the ball and sample the menu or something - who knows what delicacies they might serve with the royal family in attendance. 

His mother sends him a reminder around six to have his hair coiffed, which Brett promptly ignores, countering her disappointed reaction upon picking her up at her hotel later with an innocent, "what do you mean it looks like I just woke up? I did the best I could, it's just when you can barely see yourself in the mirror..."

"Oh well," she sighs, fixing her shiny, salmon-red evening gown that makes her look like an attention-seeking lobster. "At least you look young and cuddly. Who knows, maybe the prince is attracted to, what do you call them, twinkies. Why are you making that face?"

They roll up to 35 Orchard Road a suitable hour and a half late, and Brett can't deny the growing kernel of excitement in his stomach at the majestic (albeit blurry) sight of the giant marble fountain on the front lawn, lit up in purples and blues. He's only ever seen the palace from afar and although it appears more or less like your average colonial administrative building reminiscent of a Greek temple to his uneducated (and struggling) eyes, the presence of royalty adds a flair of intrigue to the proceedings. 

An attendant rushes to welcome them as they cross the ceremonial plaza to the main building entrance, guiding them into the foyer where Brett's mother takes the reins and shepherds Brett into the Banquet Hall to the tune of a chamber music ensemble, scanning the crowd like a hungry lion studies a herd of zebras. Rather than a single large buffet, the food in the banquet hall has been spread out across the room, each station shaded by a different ornamental palm tree, perfectly suited for hiding from overbearing mothers. As if on cue, Brett's mother spots someone she knows and he bounces with a mumbled excuse, immersing himself in the wonderful world of chili crabs, banana fritters and rice dumplings. 

Gradually, as Brett advances towards the opposite end of the room, he becomes aware of the sweeping elegance of the piece being played by the trio on the built-in stage in the shape of a semi-circle, barely large enough to fit the piano and the two string players. He inches closer, mildly surprised when he recognises the cellist, mostly from the way he moves his arm across his instrument. "Hyung!" he whisper-shouts, waving like an idiot and laughs when his friend raises his head only to promptly lower it again. To be fair, it's a moderately difficult piece, with alternating melodic and technical passages, deserving of one's full attention. Repentant, Brett settles in to listen with great attentiveness, half eyes closed, slowly sipping away at the last of his champagne.

"Do you like it?"

Brett blinks lethargically at the slim, tall figure that has appeared next to him, a polite five feet away. "Sorry?"

"The piece. How do you like it?" the man says in English this time, with a hard-to-place accent.

"Oh. It's nice enough. Guess the prince's Juilliard degree wasn't a total waste of money."

"Ah," the man says eloquently after a brief pause. "Is that a professional opinion?"

"Sure," Brett says carelessly. "I mean, it's pretty derivative, don't you think? Elgarian to the point of imitation."

"Well, I wouldn't go that far. Yes, there are similarities in the lead motif and the repeated sequences, but you can't honestly say Elgar would have ever gone for those harmonics."

Brett shrugs. "At least it's tonal. I don't listen to much contemporary stuff, to be honest."

"You're missing out." The man steps a little closer, but Brett still can't say too much about him, except that he's young and has great posture. He really should consider getting his eyes lasered. "Going out on a limb here, but you are a violinist, aren't you?"

"Yeah, in Singapore Symphony. Do we know each other? Sorry, if we do, I'm blind as a bat without my glasses."

"Glasses? That explains why I wasn't sure if you were- No, we don't know each other. Eddy Chen."

Rather than offering his hand, the man does a little bow, which Brett awkwardly mimics. Weird. "Brett Yang. Are you a musician, too?"

"You could say music is more of a side gig for me. But I'm very passionate about it. In fact, I expect I'll be seeing you a lot this upcoming season. At the concert hall, that is. I've only just moved back to Singapore after several years away, so I'm excited to see what my home country has to offer in terms of music."

"Yeah, I thought you didn't sound very Singaporean. I'm Australian, by the way, in case it isn't obvious from the accent."

Eddy laughs warmly. "It's a beautiful accent. I could listen to it all night."

Brett might be imagining things, but he thinks he's detecting a distinctly flirtatious tone in the man's words. He's not at his most confident without his glasses, but if a (hopefully) attractive man with an appreciation for classical music makes it his business to flirt with him, he'll rise to the occasion. "Oh really?" he says coyly, hoping his mother is right when she says an unfocused gaze makes you alluring.

"Um, yeah. It's very... pleasant. To the ear." Eddy clears his throat. "I don't want to assume anything, but would you like to dance? I have it on good authority that they'll be playing a waltz next. Unless you'd rather stay here and pick it apart, as well."

"Nah, I think I've satisfied my curiosity on that front. Let's dance." 

Brett places his empty glass on the nearest food station and follows Eddy to the dance floor, admiring the long line of his back, accentuated by the impeccably fitted tux. He's never waltzed with a man, but before he's even had time to worry about hand placements, Eddy has already pulled him in by the waist and and gathered his right hand in a delicate grip, merging them smoothly into the congregation of swaying pairs. Slightly panicked, Brett latches on to a spot somewhere around Eddy's shoulder blade with his left hand and hangs on for dear life, alarmed at how easily he's being swept along the shiny marble floor.

"You know, you're supposed to look your dance partner in the eyes," Eddy says in exasperation after spending a good three minutes trying to catch Brett's down-turned gaze.

"If I stop looking at my feet, I'll trip."

"You won't if you just trust my lead. I was taught to dance by some of the best instructors in the world, you know." 

Intrigued, Brett raises his head, but the question dies on his tongue. In such close proximity his useless eyes suddenly serve their purpose again, which is both amazing and slightly lamentable because he is now privy to the fact that 1) Eddy has very beautiful, very intense eyes, and 2) he's not a fucking Eddy. "What the f- You're the prince," he exclaims much louder than he intended. "Prince Edward."

"Um. Yes. Nice of you to notice." Eddy has the decency to look bashful, arm tightening around Brett as if worried he'll run away. "But I use Eddy Chen in my private life, so I didn't lie, exactly."

"What do you mean you didn't lie, you're... Oh shit, I insulted your music. Am I going to be hanged now?"

Eddy laughs, exposing goofy teeth. "Maybe. But I can think of other, more pleasurable forms of punishment." He flushes at Brett's stare. "I mean- That came out weird. I was going to suggest dinner. With me."

Brett raises an eyebrow. "Dinner with you is a form of punishment?"

"Let's just move on from that," Eddy says with a pained expression. "How's next week? I know the season opens tomorrow so your weekend must be booked, but how about Monday? Tuesday?"

"Well, I mean, I must practice," Brett says dumbly, still reeling from the turn of events. Sure, he's basically blind without his glasses, but is he a half-wit, too? He'd been handed all the clues necessary, thinking back on their conversation. "And you're a prince."

"Is that a problem?"

"I'm a commoner."

Eddy laughs like it's the best joke he's heard in years. "My mother was a quote-unquote commoner before she married my father. Besides, I'm not asking for your hand in marriage, just dinner."

"Mum will be sorely disappointed," Brett says weakly, abruptly becoming aware of the respectful circle of empty space around them on the otherwise packed dance floor. He doesn't generally care what people think of him as a person, but there must be a hundred pairs of eyes on them, whispers about who he might be - fuck. Plus he's dizzy from both the dancing and general blurriness induced by the brightly burning chandeliers, not to mention self-conscious about his poor dancing... It's a lot. "Actually, I should go look for her. She has my glasses."

"Alright, let's go find your glasses," Eddy says, now concerned, leading them decisively off the dance floor and towards the foyer. "We'll go into the garden first, you look like you need some air."

But before they make it there, a young woman in a purple silk dress and sparkling tiara appears, tugging Eddy by the sleeve. The crown princess herself, Brett realises. "Eddy, I really hate to interrupt, but the Japanese ambassador is here, you should exchange a few words with him before he retires for the evening."

"But I was going to-"

"Go," Brett says quickly, shooing at him. "I can find my own way into the garden."

Eddy rakes a hand through his hair. "Alright, I'll- Brett, please wait for me. This won't take more than five minutes."

Brett smiles non-committally, watching the siblings go, tall and slim and regal, before walking out through the main entrance into the dewy summer night, shoulders immediately sagging in relief. He really ought to call his mother, but if she saw him dancing with the prince, there'll be no end to her barrage of questions, and he's just so overwhelmed all of a sudden. When an attendant approaches him inquiring whether he needs a taxi, he nods reflexively. If Eddy makes it back before the car arrives, they'll have dinner together, Brett decides. If not... 

Eight minutes later the taxi pulls in to the plaza and Brett spares one more glance at the brightly lit windows of the palace, more disappointed than he wants to admit as he climbs into the back seat.

Barely thirty seconds later a tall, slim man runs onto the plaza from the palace, clutching his hair in despair as he catches sight of the fading rear lights in the darkness of the garden.


	2. Chapter 2

In the morning Brett's mother texts him she'll deliver his glasses to him at the concert hall in the evening, citing fatigue and an appointment at a massage parlor. There's no direct mention of the ball, only a simple "hope you had fun, dear" - so out of character Brett goes about the rest of his day in a state of fear and suspicion, sensing a disturbance in the force. By the time he arrives at the Esplanade and is immediately called aside by someone in administration, he's not even fazed, clutching his violin case in resignation as he's led into the hospitality suite for VIP guests adjacent to the concert hall. Inside, he's greeted by a small collection of people from senior management, including the CEO and artistic director, huddled around the guest of honour, none other than the prince of Singapore.

The CEO smiles at Brett as if they have exchanged more than a few words with each other. "Your highness, this is Mr Brett Yang, our con-"

"We've met," Eddy says curtly, standing too far away for Brett to make out his expression. 

"Ah, yes? Well, that's nice, considering. How are you holding up as our acting concertmaster, Mr Yang? Looks like it'll be a while yet before Mr Tan recovers enough to resume work." 

"It's fine. I'm doing my best, sir," Brett says blandly. 

"I'd say he's doing a fantastic job," Hilary Hahn, their new American art director and Brett's long-time idol, pitches in, smiling warmly. "We've developed such rapport, I think we'll have a great season together." 

The CEO makes a faint smacking sound with his lips, turning to Eddy to talk about something or other music-related. Brett exchanges a few more friendly words with Ms Hahn before excusing himself for the concert, noting with a degree of panic that he only has about ten minutes to spare for warm-up and he still hasn't got his glasses. He takes out his phone, but before he's managed to scroll down to his mother's number, Eddy bursts out of the vip suite, composing himself in embarrassment upon realising Brett hasn't gone far. "You didn't wait for me," the prince huffs. "Last night, I mean." 

"You took too long," Brett says, zeroing in on the object in his hands. "Are those my glasses?" 

"Ah, yes." Eddy presents them to him with both hands like something precious. "Your mother gave them to me at the ball." 

Brett makes a face as he imagines the encounter, what she might have said. "I should have known she wouldn't pass up the opportunity. Please forget everything that came out of her mouth. About me or anything else, really." He slips on his glasses, and the flabby world takes on nuance again, as does Eddy's face. Brown fluffy hair, pronounced cheekbones, and those glinting, keen eyes. 

"I'll have you know I found her quite charming. She reminds me of you in many ways." 

"Am I being negged?" Brett taps his chin. "Or maybe you actually want me to reject you." 

"Wait, no-" Eddy grins. "Please don't reject me. I'll take you somewhere really fancy." 

"Pass, I'm not really a suit person. Anywhere with decent bubble tea, though, and I'm sold." 

"Deal. I'd ask for your number, but your mother kind of already gave it to me. So I guess I'm asking if it's alright to text you?" 

Brett checks the time, walking backwards as he speaks, flashing a smile. "Yeah, yeah, text me - I seriously gotta run." 

He makes it backstage exactly two minutes before they have to walk on stage, speeding through scales while his colleagues rib him on his late arrival. Hyung shakes his head at him. "Didn't know you hated West Side Story this much." 

"I don't hate West Side Story," Brett protests and he truly doesn't. He hates that there's so much jazz-influence and consequently lots of interesting parts for the brass and percussion sections while the strings play second fiddle (ha ha) except for a few sad or romantic passages in the adagio and finale. Still, it's a work filled with imaginative orchestration and rhythmic challenges, and despite having never seen a single performance of the musical, he even catches himself making phantom dance steps during the gang battle sequences.

Does Eddy like clubbing, Brett wonders as he surreptitiously searches the balcony seats between movements. He may not have made much of an impression at the ball, but give him a disco ball and some edm garbage to grind to, and he's pretty sure he can redeem himself. 

* * *

"I have a confession to make," Eddy says at length as they stroll aimlessly along the winding paths of the Flower Dome, slurping their bubble teas. It's mid-morning on a Monday, and the gigantic greenhouse is about as void of people as ever, occupied mostly by retirees and school groups on field trips. 

"I knew it. You don't really practice on the piano for fours hours a day," Brett hazards, having already grown comfortable enough around Eddy to not worry about coming off as either articulate or coherent. They've been texting sporadically since Friday, mostly Brett spamming Eddy with increasingly ridiculous classical music memes, and so far the prince hasn't run for the hills. 

"Wha- Where did you even get that?" 

"There was an article in the paper about the ball that said so. Seriously, though, do you really play that much?" 

Eddy combs the back of his hair. "I may have said something along the lines of wanting to _ideally_ play that much, but well, I have other duties now that I'm not a student anymore, so... Anyway, back to my confession. I was going to say that I actually recognised you at the ball. Not from the orchestra, but from when you used to compete." 

"Huh? I haven't gone to competitions since I was like seventeen." 

"Yeah, I know. I guess you don't remember, but for a while we went to the same competitions in Australia when I still played the violin. Even after I switched to piano, I kept up with you, just kind of googled you every once in a while. I was sure you'd blow up like Ray Chen." 

"Well, ouch." Brett turns away, feigning interest in a bed of succulents. 

"Hey, I didn't mean-" Eddy nudges him gently by the elbow until they're face to face. "I just wondered what happened, that's all." 

"Nothing happened, I stagnated and fell behind. Happens to a lot of people. Most, even." 

"Really? Coz it seemed pretty sudden to me. You had a winning streak going, then there was that one competition in China where you didn't make it to the second round, and then you never competed again. Did you choke?" 

"That's not even how- It wasn't just one competition, okay? I'm- there was- You know what, it's not really any of your business, leave me alone." Brett pulls his hoody up and pushes past Eddy towards the entrance to Cloud Forest Dome, bile rising in his throat as unwanted memories clog his head. 

Eddy rushes after him but maintains a hesitant distance as they step into an alien world of bulging vegetation under grid shell glass, dominated by a 35-metre behemoth of orchids, ferns, pitcher plants and who knows what else. Certainly not Brett, having entrusted Eddy with the guide booklet, content to tune in and out of his enthusiastic narration of highlights. "That's Cloud Mountain, right?" he prompts when his companion fails to provide a voice-over, wishing he didn't react quite so caustically at Eddy's well-meaning questions. 

"Yeah," Eddy says slowly. "Do you want to up on the walkways? It says there's an exhibition of carnivorous plants at the very top." 

"Sure. Look at all that mist up there." Brett takes a covert look at the bulky man in shades trailing after them. "We can try and ditch your bodyguard." 

"Why do you want to ditch him? He's just doing his job," Eddy reproaches him, but readily accepts Brett's proffered hand, allowing himself to be roused into a ridiculous cat-and-mouse game with the security detail up and down the greenhouse, giggling like schoolboys, until Brett's weak violinist legs give in and they look for a café. 

For the next hour they chat about safe topics such as their favourite pieces of music and the differences in their experiences at music university, decimate a bread platter and a pitcher of durian ice cream, and play an increasingly bold game of footsie under the table. Eddy comes off much the same as in his texts - conscientious with his words and intensely interested in everything to do with Brett as if their personal histories are somehow on par with each other's. In fact, the looming presence of the bodyguard aside, it feels like a regular date with a regular, albeit charming man. 

"I don't want to interrupt what you're doing," Eddy sighs eventually, alluding to Brett's foot running teasingly up and down his calf and ankle, "but it's getting a bit crowded here, and it's only a matter of time before someone recognises me." 

"I should kind of get home anyway." Brett withdraws his foot, shoulders deflating as stress kicks in. "To practice. Like, seriously practice. It's a triple threat of Mahler, Debussy and Bruckner this week." 

Eddy nods, seeming unsurprised. "I'll come to see you perform if I can, but I might not have time. There's an important fundraiser on Saturday, and all these last-minute meetings leading up to it since a major sponsorship fell through, it's such a headache..." He flushes at Brett's owlish look. "I won't bore you with it, let's go get you home." He gets up before Brett can ask any questions and in the car waxes poetic about Mahler's influence in modern film music, while Brett reflects on how most of his knowledge on royalty is based on a limited selection of Disney films. What exactly does being a prince entail, apart from attending balls? 

At Brett's building Eddy offers to walk him up to his door. It's quiet between them in the lift, tension of the good kind building with each passing floor as Brett leans his back against a wall, head tilted back, shamelessly eye-fucking Eddy through his lashes while the prince fidgets with his hand in the pocket of his khaki pants, fixated on the arch of Brett's neck. From his generally reserved manner, Brett isn't expecting much beyond a chaste kiss on the cheek, but Eddy surprises him, taking Brett's face in his hands and pressing him against the door of his apartment in a passionate kiss. The world turns fuzzy as velvet behind Brett's closed eyelids and he paws at the front of Eddy's pants, squeezing his fingers under the belt to tug him closer. Eddy's hands leave his face, sliding around the back of his head, hips moving against Brett in a slow seductive rhythm until Brett starts feeling dizzy from lack of air. 

"Sorry, I got carried away," Eddy pants, extricating himself. 

"Why the fuck are you apologizing, come back here." Brett makes grabby hands at him, but is deftly rebuffed, Eddy's long fingers securing his wrists with ease. "I don't have to start practicing immediately, let's go inside." 

"Nah, you'll blame me later for not acing Mahler." "Fuck Mahler," Brett says from the bottom of his heart. How is he supposed to get through the sustained harmonic in the opening of the first symphony without shaky bow when he can't stop thinking about Eddy's thumbs pressing into the underside of his chin. 

Eddy only smiles and places a kiss on one of Brett's still captive hands. "I'll text you later. Maybe we could have lunch sometime this week?" 

_Is this payback for the ball_ , Brett types into his phone once inside his apartment, furiously kicking off his jeans on his way to a cooling shower. He gets a smiley face back. 

* * *

It takes about a week and a half for rumours about Brett's dating ventures to make the rounds among his colleagues. Phoebe, the principal bassist and one of the handful of Australians in the orchestra, is the first to breach the subject as they gather for post-concert drinks on Saturday. "It's true, isn't it? You're the man in those pictures with the prince. Come on, give us all the juicy details. As a 20-something woman settled into boring married life, I demand to live vicariously through you." 

Brett frowns. "What pictures?" 

Liz, a petite violinist and youngest member of the entire orchestra, flips out her phone, finding what she's looking for suspiciously quickly, an unflattering and entirely too sharp picture of Brett with his mouth open like a baby penguin on some tabloid site. She giggles brightly at his blank reaction, scrolling down to another picture, now with Eddy's hand holding chopsticks added, stuffing noodles into the gaping hole. Hyung chortles into his drink on Brett's other side. 

"It was a joke, okay? I was trying to annoy Eddy, he doesn't actually feed me like that. We're just- hanging out." 

"Ooh, _Eddy_." Phoebe rocks back in her chair, delighted, sounding not too far off from how Brett's mother (thankfully back in Australia) reacted on the phone earlier that week after a similar slip-up. 

"Hanging out, you say? There's even a video of this love fest," Hyung says drolly, typically cool demeanor loosened by alcohol. 

Brett snatches the phone making the rounds to squint at the fuzzy footage of him and Eddy strolling along a wooden boardwalk on a supposedly secluded coastal spot, arms around each other. "Who the hell took this?" 

"You know what the best part about this is?" Phoebe spreads out her sturdy bassist arms over the table like a casino dealer about to declare a jackpot. "Rumour has it the orchestra has commissioned a piece from him for the second half of the season. Which he'll probably be conducting himself." 

"I don't know anything about that," Brett says as all eyes turn to him. While Eddy loves talking about music, he hasn't shared much about his professional ambitions in the field, perhaps burned by Brett's thoughtless critique at the ball. It bothers Brett a little. 

"I know who does," Liz chirps, waving at Ms Hahn, on her way to the bar. "Maestro!" 

"Please, I told you it's Hilary outside work," the woman says in her self-effacing manner, approaching their table. "Let me tell you guys, too, you did great tonight. I was really nervous since it was my first big work with you, but apparently for no reason." 

"Speaking of conducting," Phoebe says after the round of compliments back and forth dies down. "Is it true that Prince Edward will make his debut as a conductor with us?" 

Hilary tilts her head playfully. "Hmm, maybe. Among other things. Both him and the crown princess have a great interest in music, I expect we'll work with them in all kinds of projects." 

"Ooh, hear that Brett?" Liz nudges him. 

"Ah, that's right," Hilary says, watching him with interest. "He seemed very keen to talk to you the other day. I think he said he's a fan? You used to compete quite a bit, didn't you? I'm pretty sure I was even a judge in one or two of those competitions." 

Brett squirms, not wanting to blow her off, but he would rather switch to viola than discuss this topic with Hilary Hahn of all people.

"Maybe, yeah." He drowns his beer and gets up with an apologetic smile. "Bathroom." He takes his time in the men's room, in the end slipping out of the bar instead of re-joining his colleagues. A likable lot, by any metric, but unstoppable and a bit obnoxious boozed up. Brett should know, he's usually among the worst. Fiddling with his phone, Brett sends a heads-up to Hyung before impulsively opening his chat with Eddy. 

**Brett**   
you are conducting for sso? 

**Eddy**  
Well hello to you too   
Who told you that? 

**Brett**  
hilary hahn... 

**Eddy**  
Ah guess cat's out of the bag then   
Hope it won't be a problem 

**Brett**  
why would it be prolbem?   
are you going to embarass me in front of evryone? 

**Eddy**  
Just thought it could be awkward to mix work and pleasure   
I'll be perfectly professional ofc 

**Brett**  
Hmph 

**Eddy**  
:(   
I wasn't deliberately keeping it a secret   
It's just not a done deal so   
Come to my bungalow tomorrow   
And I'll tell you all about it 

**Brett**  
Can i come now 

**Eddy**  
Depends   
Are you drunk? 

**Brett**  
no 

**Eddy**  
Doubt   
But fine I'll send a car   
Where are you?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> idk where i'm going with this


	3. Chapter 3

Brett pads along the polished teak floors of the bungalow with confidence born of familiarity, no longer intimidated by the vast rooms or the grandiose ceiling arches, slipping out onto the wrap-around verandah of the second floor with his morning coffee. Sitting almost right in the middle of the palace grounds, the building sits on a small hill, overlooking lush gardens, with glimpses of the city skyline. Initially Brett felt some trepidation about possibly running into Eddy's parents every time he visited the premises, but over the course of the three months they've been dating, he has only ever caught sight of the king once on the golf green and none of the queen. Princess Belle, on the other hand, is a regular visitor at the bungalow and has even hosted Brett and Eddy in the villa she uses for personal engagements, quickly winning Brett over with her unpretentious manner.

It's not quite to the point of being a serious relationship, Brett surmises, but it's on the verge of becoming something more permanent than he's had ever had. His past relationships always burned bright at the beginning, only to be snuffed out without a warning, for no apparent reason other than Brett suddenly finding himself restless and bored. And while him and Eddy have been moving quickly on paper, spending a significant portion of their free time together, there's no sense of rush or forced intimacy. If anything, despite his easy-going nature, dedication to introducing Brett to Singapore's most secluded spots, and general attentiveness, Eddy retains an aura of aloofness, rarely divulging his feelings in depth. It doesn't bother Brett overly much; Eddy's smitten stares and giddy smiles are plenty proof of affection.

Finished with his coffee, Brett slips into the master bedroom, where ornate heritage furniture blend in with neat, geometric shapes, reflecting the master of the house more than any other room in the bungalow except perhaps the music room. Eddy is sleeping in his four-poster bed on his back like a child - legs tangled in the sheets, arms splayed out to the sides - and barely stirs as Brett climbs on top of him in nothing but an over-sized t-shirt, bracing his arms against the bed so he can tickle Eddy with his slightly overgrown hair. 

"N-no," Eddy groans weakly, batting blindly at him.

"Bruise my face and I'm eating your balls for breakfast. And not in the good way," Brett says darkly.

Eddy's eyes crack open, lashes fluttering in bewilderment as the words sink in. Then his lips curve into a lopsided smile. "It honestly sometimes feels like I'm dating a cat," he mumbles lazily, arms sneaking around Brett's waist. "I had one as a child, you know. She'd wake me up by rubbing my face and if I didn't get up within a minute, the claws came out."

Somehow pleased with the comparison but not wanting to show it, Brett only huffs and makes a show of chomping Eddy's neck to hide his smile. "Rawr."

They lie comfortably snuggled together for a few more moments, Eddy suppressing yawns, until Brett remembers his initial intentions and begins rocking against Eddy, moaning softly in the back of his throat in the way he knows gets Eddy hard in seconds. 

When Brett lifts his head, Eddy grabs his hair and presses their mouths together. His other hand trails along Brett's thigh, fingers pressing into the soft inner flesh and the curve of his buttock, flexing involuntarily as Brett shivers. "You showered, right?" he asks between kisses, by now familiar with Brett's near pathological aversion to intimacy without proper levels of cleanliness. When his boyfriend makes an affirmative noise, he slides a finger down between the cheeks to rub against the anus, and Brett lets out a wet gasp. "Do you want to come like this?"

"No, my legs hurt," Brett says despondently, sprawled on either side of Eddy.

"Alright, let me just..." With some effort, Eddy sits up, holding Brett close with one arm, and makes an attempt to untangle his feet from the sheets without letting go, which proves futile. Brett topples backwards with a panicked yelp, which turns into an embarrassment as he lands safely onto the mattress, realising how unlikely he is to fall off the monstrosity of a bed. In a quick series of movements Eddy frees himself of his pyjamas, then eases Brett out of his shirt, rolling his eyes at how uncooperative Brett's acting, arms willfully limp as Eddy tugs them through the sleeves. "Why are you like this?"

"Don't want to seem too easy."

"Easy?" Eddy laughs. "You started this."

Brett doesn't bother answering, humming a tune from Carmen with his eyes half-closed, as Eddy covers his neck with kisses, moves to his shoulder, and down his body to his chest, mouthing at his nipples until Brett pushes him away, overstimulated and a little embarrassed. No one's ever paid as much attention to his nipples as Eddy does. He raises his arms above his head, grappling for the bed posts as Eddy trails down his torso, arching into a bow when the tongue slides over the narrow bones of his pelvis and between his thighs. 

Eddy sucks him right until the first swell of orgasm, pulling away at the last second to grab Brett's hips and flip him on his stomach on the bed. Brett moans in protest, gathering the bed sheets in his fists as Eddy pushes his face between two round buttocks and swipes his tongue slowly along the entrance. Brett twists and turns, moaning wantonly into the sheets as the tongue slides inside, but there is no real desire for escape in his movements, and Eddy explores with leisure. Brett comes with a muffled moan, boneless against the mattress as Eddy reaches for lube and crawls over him, nodding drowsy approval at the nudge of fingers at his anus, so relaxed there's barely any burn when Eddy pushes his dick inside, presses his face against Brett's hair and reaches his own climax in three heavy thrusts.

  
Later, after Eddy for a few hours to run errands in the city, Brett shuts himself in the music room, dominated by a bespoke chrome grand piano, for a run-through of the upcoming chamber concert. Immersed in the sonorous, gritty world of Shostakovitch, he barely registers the female voice calling for 'Edward' in the background, until the door to the music room opens. Assuming it's Belle, he takes his time drawing out the final gloomy notes of the fourth movement, startled when he finally puts down his violin and turns around to find an older woman in a silk batik suit, short grey hair styled into a stylish side-part. Queen consort Lai Mei Ching, usually referred to simply as Queen Cecilia, somehow both more subdued and more imposing in person.

"I would clap, but it almost doesn't seem appropriate after a piece like that." The queen closes the door behind her, stepping forward with assured steps, gaze sweeping across the spacious room, every bit a musician's den despite the grandiose furniture and expensive art. Alcoves stuffed full of errant pieces of sheet music, LPs stacked into tottering towers against the wall, orchestral scores and reference tomes competing for space in the bulging book shelves. Eddy's hand-written sketches for the SSO commission lie scattered across the grand where he hurriedly flung them after his late-night spark of inspiration from listening to Brett's playing turned to desire. They had sex on the plush antique divan in the corner.

"Your highness," Brett mumbles, clutching his violin like a shield.

"It's 'your majesty', actually, for kings and queens," the queen says dryly. "Ma'am and Sir after the first instance. We follow the British tradition." 

"Sorry, your majesty. Ma'am." Brett stands a little straighter and bows. "I'm Brett Yang, Eddy's... friend. He went to the city for some errands, he should be back soon." 

"It's just as well. It's you I'm here for, Mr Yang." The queen regards him steadily. "You are, of course, not Edward's 'friend'." When Brett doesn't answer, she waves an impatient hand. "I am perfectly aware of my son's sexuality, you needn't worry about that. You are his boyfriend, yes?"

"We haven't agreed on any labels," Brett says cautiously, detecting disapproval despite her words.

"It doesn't matter whether you have. Edward doesn't do casual relationships." Catching Brett's look of skepticism, the queen continues. "He didn't even have his first date until he went to university. And he dated that boy for a year. Then of course he met Sonia. Such a perfect match for him. Quiet, studious, elegant. This is only what I've been told, of course, since I never had the pleasure of meeting her. For some reason they broke it off right before graduation, to my great disappointment. Quite frankly, I was expecting to be introduced to my future daughter-in-law upon Edward's return to Singapore."

"Well, I don't know anything about that, ma'am," Brett says flatly.

"He's not once mentioned the woman he was going to marry in the three months you've been together?"

Brett forcibly feigns nonchalance, placing his violin on the piano stool and loosening his bow. "We mainly talk about music."

The queen watches him pack his violin into its case in a contemplative silence, seeming to arrive at a conclusion by the time he snaps the latches down. "Thank you for your time, Mr Yang, and for clearing my head. It seems you either don't have his heart or you'll end up breaking it. I hope for all our sakes it's the former."

Brett looks up sharply, but the queen is already at the door, and any words of protest dissolve on his tongue. What was he going to say anyway? 'You don't know anything about us'? 'About me'? Brett doesn't know himself where he stands with Eddy and feels disinclined to find out after everything he's learned. Was Eddy really going to marry his girlfriend? If they truly broke it off only right before graduation, then the relationship must have ended only a few months before the ball. Which essentially makes Brett the rebound.

It shouldn't crush him the way it does, but Brett is helpless against the dense fog of darkness that creeps around his neck and clouds his chest. He sits lifelessly on the piano stool, lifts the lid and starts pressing the keys at random, louder and louder until his fingers latch on to familiar chords. An involuntary chuckle bubbles up his throat as he recognises the piece, and he throws himself into the rest of the Marche funébre, or what he can remember of it anyway. He gives up entirely on the sweet melody in the middle, both because it doesn't suit his morbid mood and because he keeps fumbling with the harmonics, and eventually only plays the beginning, over and over, chest reverberating from the bass chords.

Eddy returns eventually, excitement visible on his face at the sight of Brett behind the piano, motioning him to keep playing. "I thought you said you can't play," he murmurs against Brett's ear as he leans down to hug him from behind.

"Obviously, I can't."

"Why are you always downplaying yourself?" Eddy's hands slide down Brett's arms to his fingers, guiding them to the right keys, but the difference in size proves too much, and their collective playing soon turns into cacophony. "Aww, your hands are so small."

"I know," Brett sighs, pulling his hands into his lap while Eddy continues into the melodic section he's been avoiding, long fingers bouncing deftly on the keys, notes flowing like water from his touch. "Your mother came by."

Eddy goes almost comically still, hands freezing on the keyboard. "She did?" There's almost a frantic note in his voice as he straightens, digging his fingers into Brett's shoulders to massage them in what seems like an attempt to soothe them both. "What did she say?"

Brett chews on his lip, undecided on whether his pride can take relaying the entire conversation. "Not much. She just wanted to know our relationship status, I guess."

"What did you tell her?"

"That we haven't discussed it."

"Oh. Well. I consider you my boyfriend, if that's somehow... not obvious." 

"Yeah. I mean, same."

Eddy leans down to press a long kiss on Brett's hair. "Did she say anything else? I know she can be pretty intense."

"Intense sounds about right. I don't think she much cares for me," Brett says morosely, resolving to keep questions about Sonia to himself for now. If he brings her up now, he'll only get emotional and make a fool of himself.

"Only because she doesn't know you," Eddy assures him without hesitation, fingers loosening on Brett's shoulders, caressing them instead. "I'm sorry you had to face her alone. She almost never comes here."

"I used the wrong title, you know. Your highness instead of your majesty."

"Ha, classic."

"It's not funny. I thought she would cast me out or something."

"Nah, mother doesn't operate like that. She's all about scheming behind the scenes."

"Brilliant."

"Don't worry, she has zero say in my love life. And she'll come to love you soon, anyway."


	4. Chapter 4

"When you said this was going to be the most exciting date of my life, I was expecting a little more than the Esplanade," Brett says as he gets out the car, peering quizzically around him as a smug Eddy leads him decisively inside and up to the second level of the mall. It's past nine pm and all the smaller boutiques have already closed, which is why Brett is surprised when they stop in front of a small, familiar shop offering repair and maintenance services for string instruments. As his violin hasn't required much work during his brief time in Singapore, he has only ever window-shopped at the store, admiring the range of contemporary and antique violins on display. 

"Did you know," Eddy says conversationally, "that what you see here is only a small part of the so-called Rin Collection, which consists of over 300 instruments, including several Strads?"

Brett nods hesitantly. "I'm pretty sure I've heard of it."

"As Mr Rin and I have recently become partners in business, I thought I'd ask him for a small favour. You've never played on a Strad, have you?"

"I've never even seen one up close," Brett says, clutching Eddy's arm as a man in a dark suit notices them and hurries to open the door from inside.

"Your highness, Mr Yang, right on time. Please, come in."

They're led through the immaculate store into a back room where Brett's attention is immediately drawn to the three violins laid out on a round table, the deep shades of varnish luminous under the overhead lights.

"They're from slightly different time periods," the shop attendant says. "There's an early one, a late one and one from the so called golden period. You can tell just from the colour, but of course there are many other differences." An entire spiel about wood types, arches and f-holes follows, but Brett has trouble focusing, fingers flexing in nervous anticipation as he realises he's about to play not one, but three Strads in a row.

Just as it seems the attendant is done talking, Eddy decides to nerd out and engages the man in further conversation on what exactly makes old Italian violins so superior to all others. Brett gives up on following it when they get stuck in the finer distinctions between projection and simple loudness and inches closer to the violins, fingers curling around the neck of the one with summery golden-brown varnish, fitting it under his chin like it belongs there. When no one screams for him to stop, he also picks up a bow and tries Méditation, chest swelling at the depth and sweetness of the tone. 

The sounds of talking soon recede and Eddy rounds the table, making himself comfortable on the seat against the back wall, eyes glued at Brett's face until he finishes the piece. "Beautiful. I'm quite happy to renounce earthly pleasures and follow you to the desert." He laughs when Brett only blinks at him. "Someone hasn't done their homework. Go on, try the second one."

Brett looks around the room, realising they're alone. "Wow, he just left us with the Strads."

"Clearly he realised they were in good hands. Hurry up, I want to hear some Tchaikovsky next."

"I'll play what I please," Brett sniffs, but dutifully switches to the violin in the middle, a deep red autumn colour, and chooses the main cadenza from the violin concerto without thinking. What strikes him most was how easy it feels to play, how readily the instrument responds to the slightest change in pressure, how the sound builds and builds, never running out. In a strange way he is reminded of his Benz, currently stored away in his parents' garage in Brisbane. It's been a long time since he's played this piece at length, in fact he's not sure whether he's touched it since that one catastrophic day when things truly started falling apart, and yet his fingers dance on the strings curiously carefree, unburdened by past failures.

He plays through till the end of the first movement, revelling in the sheer power of the instrument as the runs get harder and higher, fuelling his tired hands. Sweat dampens his brow and the back of his t-shirt when he finishes and re-attunes to his surroundings, panting as he meets Eddy's eyes, gleaming with such emotion Brett looks away, gripped by a sudden bout of shyness. "Sorry, that was a bit rough. The violin sounds amazing, though. So powerful."

"Yes. It um-" Eddy says with a rough voice, pausing to cough. "It suits you. The first one was a little too mellow, perhaps? It's what I would prefer, to be honest, but for you, a darker tone seems more... apt. Do you still want to play the last one?"

"What? Of course I do. Who knows when I'll get the chance to do this again." For his final piece, Brett picks the andante of Bach's second violin sonata, which brought him his first win in a major international competition and has come to represent the happy days of his youth far beyond the scope of his musical career. The instrument sounds near identical to the the second one, creamy and robust, but feels a little heavy on his shoulder. His heart isn't swayed. 

"Guess I don't have to ask which one's your favourite." Eddy gets up and stretches, shirt riding up to show a snug leather belt and a sliver of stomach, finally drawing Brett's attention away from the violins. "So, what do you think? Date living up to your expectations?" he asks, bounding up to his boyfriend like a golden retriever expecting a treat.

"I don't even know what to say, this is the coolest thing anyone's ever done for me," Brett sighs, locking his arms behind Eddy's neck so he can tug him down for a kiss. "I guess we should get going soon," he says reluctantly when the kiss threatens to turn into a full snogging session. 

"Yeah. Just need to get the violin packed up and sign the deposit. I asked them to draw up paperwork for all three violins to save time."

Brett stares at him uncomprehendingly. "The violin- You're buying it?"

"Technically, my foundation is buying it. And giving it to you on indefinite loan, no strings attached. Ha! _Strings_."

Brett ignores his boyfriend's stupid grin and takes several steps back, wrecking his hair with both hands. "But, I'm not a soloist. I'm not even a concertmaster."

Eddy shrugs. "Mr Tan's been gone so long everyone basically considers you one. Also, you didn't hear it from me, but the board is pushing for him to retire by the end of the season, and the position will be yours for the taking, should you still want it. Of course, you'll get the Guadagnini if and when that happens, but it's attached to the post, so... With my foundation's model, you'll never have to worry about losing your instrument."

"Are you doing this for other musicians, too?"

"We _will_ , yeah. If you're suggesting I'm abusing my position to give my boyfriend undeserved benefits, you're only about 10% correct and only in the sense that I'm speeding up a due process. I wasn't going to mention it, but I did in fact submit an official application on your behalf. Recommendation letters, biography, performance schedule, reviews... And I realise that sounds kind of bad, but damn it, Brett, you would have never done it yourself." Eddy closes the gap between them, running his hands up and down Brett's tense body, huddled in on itself. "Are you really going to say no to a Strad?"

Turns out, Brett is not. He watches with detached attention as the violin and an equally exquisite Tourte bow are packed into a discrete, kevlar-fortified case, clutching it with both hands while Eddy takes care of the formalities. He doesn't ask about the exact price, doesn't think he can handle knowing yet, although in the end it doesn't even make much of a difference what exact number accompanies the six zeros. In the car Eddy hesitantly suggests a sleepover at the bungalow, but gives in without a fight when Brett declines, accepting his need to get properly acquainted with his new baby in private. Nevertheless, it takes Brett almost forty minutes to stumble the car in front of his building, lips swollen from efforts to convey with his body what he failed in putting into words.

  
Reluctant to create more fuss and rumours, Brett opts against playing the Stradivari in public for the time being, thrusting him into a kind of double life, akin to that of a married man with a new, exciting mistress. Eddy serves as his only, albeit very passionate audience and collaborator, and they play through a wide catalogue of music, from sonatas to concertos, even occasionally switching instruments, which usually ends in a hysterical laughter, but also leads to a surprising development in Eddy's commission piece. Abandoning his plans for a piano concerto, he begins recasting the solo parts for violin instead, revising and adjusting each section as he goes after Brett tries playing it and suggests technical revisions.

"You know, I used to not understand the concept of muses," Eddy confesses one day after accepting Brett's suggestion of stretching a phrase to the octaves above and below and subsequently spending the morning altering the overall structure of the second movement. "But this piece truly didn't come alive until I met you, and I've been toying with it for almost a year. I wouldn't have even included a cadenza if it wasn't for you."

Brett inspects him lazily from where he's stretched out on the divan, immersed in a Junji Ito anthology from Eddy's ridiculous manga collection. "I'm expecting a long and sappy dedication in the program notes. Who are you getting to play it anyway? Ray Chen? Some prodigy?"

"Ray probably would do it, even on such short notice," Eddy says hesitantly, improvising a lilting melody on the piano. "And the board would love it. But I haven't really given it much thought. I was going to ask Sophie - Sophie Druml that is, I don't know if you're familiar - when I was still writing a piano concerto, but it's all up in the air now. Hilary and I were just talking about it, and we have this idea we arrived at together, that there's no particular need to go for a big name. I mean, the concert's theme is young Singaporean composers, and the other two works in the program are for ensembles... Makes sense to go for someone closer to home for the premiere."

  
Had Brett been paying better attention to his boyfriend's meandering monologue, he might have correctly followed the line of thought to its logical conclusion, but a story about a girl whose tongue has turned into a slug has him too enraptured. Thus, two weeks later, when the orchestra librarian shows up at the tail end of a rehearsal to distribute parts for the finished concerto, it is with great shock that Brett receives a folder with "violin solo" written on top. He even chases after the librarian to insist there must be a mistake, which the sharp old woman doesn't take to kindly, before tracking down the manager, who peers at him in confusion: "But, surely you must have known? Aren't you and the composer...? It's a great piece, by the way; I wouldn't be surprised if it ends up becoming a staple. You must be thrilled to get to do the premiere."

Brett musters a smile and excuses himself, throat throbbing to the beat of his pulse as he exits the building and meanders down the Marina Bay waterfront with jerky steps, not sure where he's headed. How could Eddy do this to him? When he knows Brett's history? Maybe not _exactly_ , not everything, but enough to not spring this on him. It's a fiendishly difficult concerto, too, with acrobatic leaps and endless arpeggios, not to mention that godawful cadenza, which he may execute confidently in the confines of Eddy's music room, but in front of a full concert hall of people? The very thought of it makes Brett delirious with nerves, and that's not even getting into dynamics and phrasing of the sultry lyrical passages of the second movement.

Helix Bridge appears to Brett's right and he attacks the slight incline aggressively, gripping the straps of his violin case. The sun is dipping below the city skyline, painting a glimmering pathway into the bay, but he pays it no mind, sequestering himself in an observation platform only to grip at the railing and glower into nothingness. It is at this point that his phone rings, Eddy's name on the screen, and he remembers their agreement to have dinner after the evening rehearsal. Lips pressing into a line, he accepts the call. "Yeah?"

"Where are you? I've been waiting for like 20 minutes."

Brett takes a few deep breaths to steady his voice before speaking, but in vain. "I went on a walk."

"Walk? Is something wrong? You sound weird."

"Yeah, something's wrong. I just got my part for the concerto."

"Already? Damn it, I wanted to tell you in person," Eddy says entirely too cheerfully. "Hilary has the board eating from her hand, it didn't even take that much persuading to give you the solo. Isn't it great?"

"No, it's not, you fucking arsehole."

"Brett, wh-"

"You of all people should have known better than to do this! It's like you're- I'm not even-" Brett's so engulfed with fury words fail him and he bangs the railing, drawing alarmed stares from tourists taking selfies. "It's going to be a fucking disaster, okay? People will say I only got the solo because of you. And they'll be proven right when I flop spectacularly and embarrass not only myself but you and the entire orchestra. I'll be lambasted in the press. 'The prince's little pet project turns premiere into slap-stick comedy'!"

"Brett, I don't even know what to say... The hell? You've already played the concerto several times, _you were literally there_ writing it with me. You're not going to flop. I admit that I should have told you about it earlier, but I didn't want to spoil the surprise-"

"Ha! That's not why and you know it."

"What do you mean?" Eddy asks carefully. 

"You didn't tell me because you knew I would refuse to do it." The silence speaks for itself, and Brett draws in a shuddering breath. "You know what, I think you just like controlling me. You said it yourself, you've been following my career for years. Maybe it's why you invited SSO to the ball, so you could conveniently run into me, seduce me and engineer my career into what you wanted. You even fixed me up with a Strad!"

"Now you're being so completely irrational, I don't even know what to say," Eddy says, sounding both baffled and exhausted. "Listen, I don't want to talk about this on the phone-"

"Agreed, I'm done talking to you, too." Brett ends the call and presses a trembling thumb on the side button until the phone shuts down, stuffing it into the pouch of his hoody, rush of adrenaline making his head spin. It is in fact rare for Brett to get angry enough to so much as raise his voice, but when he does, all his darkest impulses band together and burst out for maximum damage. Already regret and embarrassment are creeping in over some of the things he said to Eddy, but he feels too wronged to even think about making amends yet. He'd rather not think anything at all right now.

Too drained to return home and with nothing else to distract himself with from mounting post-argument gloom, Brett slumps against the railing, staring listlessly across the water as darkness sets in and the bay lights up like a Christmas tree in reds, blues and greens. Upon first moving to the city, he used to stop by to soak in the sounds and sights of the waterfront almost daily, developing a particular affinity for the Helix Bridge and its viewing platforms, imagining himself as a passenger on a space ship in an alien world. In fact, Singapore to Brett is like one big giant escape where it's easy stare into the lights and convince himself he has achieved all he ever wanted. 

Eddy, too, seemed to fit in seamlessly with the fantasy from his impeccable manners and perfect waltz to his love of music. Too seamlessly, it turns out, as he has now been unmasked as a harbinger of doom.

Brett buries his face in his arms, willing for his brain to shut down.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's probably not realistic for a concertmaster to find out he's playing the solo only upon receiving the part, but I just went with it for maximum drama. Actually, Eddy still being in talks about writing a piece for the orchestra and then changing the piece when the season has already started is... probably also not very likely. 😅


	5. Chapter 5

Brett half-expects to find Eddy on his doorstep upon returning home a few hours later and feels absurdly when he doesn't. After everything he said on the phone, it's no wonder the prince is no mood to see him. Still, he finally turns his phone on under the excuse of ordering food and waits for the notifications to roll in, pulse picking up. There's several, but only two from Eddy. A missed call and a single message, which Brett opens with shaky fingers, half-convinced he's being dumped. 

_I want to explain myself, but I've been staring at the screen for twenty minutes and just can't find the words. I will come to see you tmrw after rehearsal._

Oh, will he now? The anger that has burned down to a low simmer threatens to boil over again as Brett traces the words over and over, fighting the urge to press the call button. It's almost ten pm, he's hungry, physically and emotionally exhausted, and has to get up for a morning rehearsal the next day - as much it rankles him, nothing good will come from calling Eddy right now. He orders jajangmyeon, takes a shower, and sits down to watch an action movie while he eats, but his mind is preoccupied elsewhere, dredging out memories long and laboriously buried.

...He's in Shanghai, in the green room of the symphony hall. It's the semi-final and he's already played three difficult pieces in front of the judges: a string quartet, a sonata by Brahms and Ysaÿe each. Usually by this stage of the competition the butterflies have settled. But nothing about the past year has been usual for Brett. He's been experiencing a lot of memory slips on stage, only finishing his performances on muscle memory. During his performance of the Brahms sonata three days ago he felt like was playing from behind a curtain, unable to connect with what his fingers were doing. He's terrified it'll happen again. 

As he walks on stage, he has a flash of intense vertigo, like he might pass out any moment. He can't feel his limbs. He barely registers when the orchestra when it starts playing and comes close to missing his cue. It doesn't get any better from there: he misses a note, another there, plays increasingly off tune. In the second principal theme he's completely out of sync with the horns and clarinets, and in the development he finally loses it. His mind goes blank and his fingers stop moving...

The intercom buzzes. Heart still thudding from the painful memory, Brett rises and goes to the door, clutching his half-empty carton of jajangmyeon. "Hello?"

"It's me. Eddy. Can I come up?"

Brett sighs, letting his forehead rest against the wall for a moment before answering. "Yeah." He leaves the door open and returns to the couch, curling into a ball in the corner. The action film is still on and he keeps his eyes on it when Eddy quietly enters the apartment and joins him on the couch.

"I don't know if you got my text-"

"I did."

"Right. Okay. Sorry, I couldn't wait till tomorrow, after all."

"It's fine. Guess it's better to get this out of the way."

"Are you breaking up with me?"

"No, I was-" Brett turns to Eddy, forgetting his words when he sees how out of sorts his boyfriend looks, hair mussed, staring at Brett with big, helpless eyes. "I was referring to us having a conversation. I mean, I'm upset, but I don't want to break up with you. And I shouldn't have said that stuff about you being all... Macchiato with me. I don't actually think you orchestrated meeting me."

"I'm glad to hear that. That party was sort of flung on me by my mother, and she was in charge of the guest list, as well. Also, I'm pretty sure it's Machiav-" Eddy catches Brett's eye. "Actually, never mind. What I want to say is that I most certainly didn't plan the whole Strad thing, either, although I can see why it might look that way. In fact, the whole idea of writing a violin concerto didn't even come to me until I watched you play the Tchaik in the shop. You're a fantastic violinist, Brett, and I stand by what I said then: you deserve a Strad. Whether or not you're playing as a soloist."

Eddy falls expectantly silent, and Brett wets his lips, speaking quietly, "I believe you. But you still didn't tell me about the solo."

"I know, I was such a coward." Eddy slumps forward, elbows on his thighs as he rubs his face with both hands. "It was just an idea that came up at dinner with Hilary, and she ran with it. I honestly didn't think the board would go for it with Ray Chen as an option. Of course I knew you wouldn't react well, so I kept pushing off telling you about it, and before I knew it weeks had passed. There's no excuse for it, really. You had it right, a little bit. Somewhere in the recesses of my mind I really thought I... knew better what's good for you. I'm sorry."

"I accept your apology, Eddy. But," Brett swallows with difficulty, blinking away the tears threatening to well up, all his anger and frustration dissolving, "I need some time to think. Maybe we both do. I feel like we've been moving a little too fast. In the past month I don't think I've once slept in my own bed for more than two nights in a row." He reaches for Eddy's hand, holding it between his own. "You're my first serious boyfriend, and I don't want to fuck this up. There are still many things we don't know about each other, and maybe it's good if we take a break to figure out, if we can truly trust each other enough to... to share them."

Eddy's eyes are brimming with both sadness and some confusion as he brings his free hand to join the others, squeezing them gently. "I can't say I'm very happy about it, but if that's what you want... We'll still stay in touch, though, right?"

Brett nods firmly. "Definitely. I mean we're doing a concert together in two months, we'll have to sort things out by then."

"Two months," Eddy repeats glumly, rubbing Brett's hands like he's planning on never letting go. "You're doing the concerto, though?"

"Can't pull out now that everyone knows about it," Brett says pointedly, and Eddy shrinks. "It's going to take up all my spare time, preparing for it, so we wouldn't see each other much even if we weren't going on a break."

"But you've already played-"

"It's not about whether or not I can play the right notes or whatever. It's about whether I can do it in front an audience of 2000 people. Frankly, I'm expecting a disaster, and I just need to find some way to... Actually, I'm not sure what I'm going to do yet. I just need to not have any distractions for a while, to clear my mind and focus on- me and my playing, I guess."

"Alright. But if there's anything you need, anything I can do..." Eddy squeezes his hand.

  
True to his word, Brett does little else but work on the concerto for the next two weeks, turning down all invitations to socialize from his friends. He employs all the strategies taught to him by his therapist in his adolescence to help prevent memory slips. Memorizes the music to the point that he can start from any bar. Studies the structure of the score and arranged it into a mind map of groups and subgroups according to tempo and dynamics. Decorates the score with coloured pencils, giving each phrase and section a visual image that conveys its character, as Brett sees it. The main theme in orange waves, the cadenza in yellow sawtooth, and so forth.

And yet, he doesn't feel like he's getting anywhere, and he knows exactly why. His problem isn't really with his skills or his memory, but the expectations he places on himself, which manifest as stage fright. Addressing it isn't proving any easier than it was as a teenager, however. The fact of the matter is that it's not enough for him to do a competent job with the concerto. He needs to excel. To dazzle and delight. Make people feel something in addition to delivering a flawless technical performance. That's not something two months of meditative practice is going to stamp out of him.

Brett wonders whether his pathological need to elicit reactions from people is something he was born with or something installed in him by his mother, pushing him to the limelight since he could barely walk. It certainly doesn't come from his father, a shrewd businessman, who despite leading a company of 150 employees abhors social gatherings of all kinds, often hiding behind books and newspapers even at family functions. Which is why Brett, despite all their quarrelling, feels much closer to his mother, who held on to a wide circle of connections from her brief but illustrious career as an 80s Mandopop star and jumps at any chance to showcase her singing.

Suddenly experiencing a rare bout of homesickness from all his reminiscing, Brett takes a break from practicing and rings his mother.

"Why are you suddenly calling me at this hour?" is how she greets him. "Has something happened? Are you ill?"

"No. Actually, I have some news."

"You're engaged?" his mother shrieks.

" _No_ , not that kind of news. Same-sex marriage isn't even a thing in Singapore, mum."

"That's alright, you can get married here. Surely they have to recognise it - he's the prince, after all."

" _Anyway_. My actual news is that I'll be performing as a soloist for the SSO in about six weeks."

"Oh, that's wonderful news, dear! About time they gave you a solo. When is it? I'm writing it down right now so I'll know to schedule."

"January 15th."

For a moment nothing but the sounds of smacking lips and pages being flipped can be heard. "But darling, that's the same day as your dear prince is conducting for the orchestra."

Of course she would know that. "Yeah, it's his piece I'm playing. A violin concerto."

His mother lets out a strange gurgling sound, and for a moment Brett is worried she's having a stroke. "Darling," she says with a quivering voice, "you're making all my dreams come true." 

" _Your_ dreams?"

"My dreams for you. I can picture it already, you and him, together on stage, in your handsome tuxedos, the envy of everyone present. You know, you broke my heart when you first told me you were gay; I thought you could never have the kind of life I wanted for you. But here you are, proving me wrong, my dearest first born. Now, if only I got you married up, I could rest easy for the rest of my days. Of course I would prefer if you also gave me grandchildren, but I suppose that might not be so easy. Although, the other day I did read this interesting article on surrogacy-"

"Mum, sorry, but I actually have to go practice now. I just rang to tell you the news."

"Well alright, dear, but don't practice too much or the prince will get restless and wander away. I don't like how many society events he's been in lately. There's been pictures almost every other day, with all these pretty women! That one diplomat's daughter in particular worries me."

"What diplomat's daughter?" Brett asks despite himself.

"Her name is Sonia Wei. She's a harpist, went to Juilliard with him. One article even implied they might have been a couple."

"Oh," Brett says numbly. "Well, I'm sure it's nothing. I'm going now, say hi to dad!"

It is not nothing. It is a poison flower blooming from the seed of evil planted in the fertile soil of Brett and Eddy's paradise by Queen Cecilia weeks ago. Sonia, the beautiful, ladylike academic, who's apparently also a diplomat's daughter _and_ plays the harp. A woman any mother would kill to have as a daughter-in-law. In Singapore. With Eddy.

Embarrassed but unable to stop himself, Brett searches up a popular tabloid online and clicks on the popular tag "royal family". Scrolling down the page he quickly finds what he's looking for, a collage of images from the opening of an Australia-Singapore Arts Group meeting a few days ago. Eddy's there with Belle, but Sonia Wei, identified as a member of the Australian delegation, appears in most pictures right by their side, smiling demurely. The fact that she's Australian somehow rankles Brett the most for reasons difficult to determine. _It's a beautiful accent_ , Eddy said at the ball the night they met, so wistfully.

Eager to cut off the wings from his insecurities beyond they soar to unreachable heights, Brett finds Eddy's name on the phone and presses the call button, bouncing his knee in anticipation. They've been mostly exchanging texts, and he feels oddly nervous about hearing his boyfriend's voice after a while.

Eddy sounds slightly out of breath as he answers. "Brett? What's going on? Everything alright?"

"Can't I call people just because anymore? I wanted to hear your voice..." 

"Oh, okay." Eddy sighs. "I'm happy you called."

"Yeah? Have you been busy?"

"Very. I've got the foundation, obviously, and recently I've also taken on all these official engagements... It's more work than you might think."

"Mhm." From Eddy's stilted voice Brett can tell he's not alone; in fact he's almost certain he can make out a woman's voice. "You have company?"

"Yeah, some friends from uni are staying with me. I did tell you about them coming."

Yes, Brett does distinctly remember that now that Eddy's mentioned it. "Yeah, yeah, sure. Two of them, right?"

"Yeah. I'd tell you all about them, but they're listening, so." Distinctly female laughter rings in the background.

"I could come meet them."

"Uh, right now? I'm not sure that's the best idea. I mean, of course I want you to meet them, but..."

"But what?"

"We're on a break, Brett, remember? If you want get back together, great, I'd love to, but we should talk one on one first." Eddy pauses. " _Do_ you want to get back together?"

"Yeah, I do. It's not like we really _broke up_ anyway," Brett says sourly. Is that how Eddy saw it? That they were essentially single and free to mingle?

"No, of course not. Just... seems like forever since we've talked in person, so. Let's have dinner tomorrow? Somewhere nice and quiet. I'm dying to see you face to face."

Brett agrees, and Eddy ends the call with one final 'miss you'. By now it's gotten dark in the apartment, but Brett makes no move to turn on the lights, clutching the phone as he picks the conversation apart, looking for inconsistencies. It sounded so reasonable, that they should get together properly before introducing Brett to Eddy's friends, but when one of those friends is an ex, staying under the same roof... Eddy didn't even suggest meeting at the bungalow for the dinner. Can't he ask his friends to vacate the house for a couple of hours? 

Actually, who's to even say it really is 'friends' rather a 'friend', singular? Eddy's already conveniently left out the part about having dated one of his guests, just like he "failed" to tell Brett about the solo; not _quite_ lying is practically a character trait of his by now.

Brett stands up, finds a number on his phone. "Yes, hello, I'd like a taxi, please.... 35 Orchard Road."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I got kind of tired writing this chapter because Brett's a mess on so many fronts; I hope it reads okay. Anyway, everything will be resolved in the final chapter, I'll work hard on it.


End file.
